And as the waning sky paints itself in gold,
October will dip its head beneath the surface
and fade away.
We will lose track of time.
The pastels that kiss the trembling waters will remind us
of the flowers that dance with the romance of spring,
and we will forget that the dead of the winter
awaits us tomorrow.
There will be no still frames,
though we will desperately try to fashion ourselves the memories
that carry through the seasons and the fissures of ticking clocks.
We will carve our pictures into chalky asphalt
and pray that the awakening morning doesn’t wash away our dreams.
And as we watch the dying skyline, we will hold hands,
ignoring the pace of heavy breathing
and waiting for the night to fall.
The air will whisper dread for the coming day,
but we will remain seated,
catching brief glimpses of the drowning orange
as it is buried behind closed eyes.